


Five Times Stiles and Derek Had Sex

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future Fic, M/M, POV Derek, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And one time they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Stiles and Derek Had Sex

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent in that Derek didn’t leave, people are _alive_ , and most importantly, the Camaro is still around. But canon isn't very important here.
> 
> Warning: there is a very brief and vague reference to something nonconsensual that happened to Stiles "off-screen." It’s at the beginning the fourth section—if you’d like to skip it, Ctrl/Cmd+F yourself to “but Stiles smiled.”

In hindsight, the first time was a little inevitable and probably a long time coming.

Derek was pretty sure that other college kids didn’t have to fight supernatural creatures on their breaks, but at least Beacon Hills had been pretty quiet for a while. They’d been having a little problem with _wood nymphs_ , though—seriously, who knew those fuckers were so territorial about their trees—but thanks to the combined efforts of the whole pack, that was now taken care of.

Which meant that Derek and Stiles were left riding out the adrenaline rush as they slouched in the Camaro, panting, dirt-streaked, and a little damp from an unfortunate encounter with a stream. Stiles’ eyes were bright, and as they sat there, the ever-present haze of arousal that swirled around him seemed to be getting thicker. Derek had been reluctantly attracted to Stiles for longer than he’d like to admit—he’d finally stopped beating himself up about it so damn much after the kid turned 18—and even though teenagers and their clouds of lust could be pretty non-discriminatory, he was pretty sure Stiles felt similarly. The age difference made him a little squirmy when it came to doing something about it, though, so he knew nothing would ever happen unless Stiles went for it.

Which, terrifyingly, looked like it might be happening.

Their eyes locked for a long second, and then Derek’s attention was stolen by Stiles’ chest, still heaving from the exertion. He was 19 now, almost 20, and the way that his upper body strained against the seams of his shirt showed off how he had certainly grown into the promising breadth of his shoulders. Derek’s gaze snapped back up to his face after a long, incriminating moment, and he swallowed hard when he caught sight of Stiles’ blown pupils.

Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt without breaking their sudden staring contest, and even though he knew it was coming, the faint click in the silence still made Derek jump. He was frozen, his hands fisted by his sides, and he held his breath as Stiles got his knees under him and swung one over Derek, squeezing himself into his lap—no easy task in the Camaro. They were both tall, and while it didn’t look very comfortable for Stiles, hunched over like that with his head bumping against the roof, he certainly didn’t appear to mind. He carefully lifted his hands to rest on Derek’s shoulders, sweeping his thumbs down over his collarbone, and from this distance, Derek could see all the different flecks of colors in Stiles’ eyes.

The air in the car seemed impossibly thick and charged, and Derek didn’t dare break the spell with words. He jerked his hips up instead, just an inch, and Stiles took a sharp breath, clenching his fingers in the fabric of Derek’s shirt and scooting closer. He was hard, unsurprisingly— _19_ , his brain screamed at him—but Derek was, too, somehow, just from the anticipation.

With a sudden rush of courage, Derek locked one hand on Stiles’ hip and wrapped the other arm low around his back, just above his ass. Stiles took that as the encouragement that it was and grinded his hips down, just once, enough to make them both groan. He moved again, faster this time, while Derek tugged Stiles’ upper body closer and slid his nose up his neck. Fuck, he smelled good, and Derek tried not to think about whether this was Stiles’ first time or not. He figured _probably_ not—Stiles was objectively very attractive, and presumably the kids he was at college with were smarter than the idiots in Beacon Hills. And he hoped for Stiles’ sake that his first time wasn’t with _Derek_ , in a car of all places. But he also couldn’t envision anyone else touching Stiles without wanting to _claw_ something, so he decided to consider it a draw and not think about it anymore.

It was fast and hard and somewhat graceless, with somehow too much friction and not enough at the same time. And way too soon, Derek came with a groan, exhaling wetly against Stiles’ neck and pulling him down hard against his lap. He should have been embarrassed, probably, but it had been a _long_ time, and by the looks of it, Stiles wasn’t far behind.

Sure enough, just a second later, the hand that had migrated to Derek’s hair tightened painfully, and there was a strangled cry right in his ear—he’d be replaying that sound in his head for a long time, he knew, along with the way Stiles clutched at him afterward and breathed against his temple.

Just as the come was starting to dry very unpleasantly inside Derek’s briefs, Stiles slid back into the passenger seat and stretched out his legs. “Fuck,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair, and Derek snorted at his succinct summation.

“Yeah.”

He really had no idea what to do from there, so he just turned the key and sped off in the direction of Stiles’ house.

* * *

Derek bitched and complained the whole time, but Erica succeeded in dragging him to some bar one rainy Thursday night. She didn’t listen to his protests of how much he hated bars, with all the smells and loud music, and just promised that everyone was going to be there. That didn’t ease his worries, though, especially when it turned out she was right. Derek studiously avoided Stiles’ gaze for the first part of the evening—he hadn’t seen him since the Camaro incident a few weeks ago, and they certainly hadn’t talked about it.

Derek didn’t even know what to _think_ about it. He wanted…everything, he was pretty sure, anything and everything that Stiles could give him, but he also knew that Stiles deserved better than him. He should be dating people at college, normal people who were emotionally healthy and who could give Stiles everything that he deserved.

But if he just wanted someone to get off with occasionally—well, Derek could give him that, at least. It probably wasn’t the smartest course of action, but he figured he might as well continue the pattern of questionable decisions in his life. At least this one would probably result in orgasms.

He was halfway through his beer—he had no idea why he was drinking it, he didn’t even like the taste—when something caught his attention. It was Stiles, halfway across the bar, talking to some guy. The other guy was interested, if his loose smirk and the way he leaned into Stiles’ space was anything to go by, and Derek’s jaw tightened.

He was stalking across the room before he even realized what he was doing, and as he got closer, he couldn’t think of anything to say, couldn’t think of an excuse. But actions were always better than words, in his opinion, so he just grabbed Stiles by the wrist and tugged him away. Stiles didn’t resist, thankfully, and tossed a half-hearted apology over his shoulder to the guy, which Derek barely registered.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, though, and yielded easily as Stiles pushed him to the other side of the room, far away from their friends and closer to where people were dancing. Stiles shoved him right into the middle of the mass of people, turning around so that Derek was plastered against his back. There was some terrible song playing, one with a loud beat, and Derek tried to tune it out.

Stiles craned his neck back against Derek’s shoulder and twisted his head so that he could speak right into his ear, even though Derek could have heard from him five feet away. “If you’re gonna drag me away from perfectly nice people, then I’m gonna make you dance with me.”

“I clearly didn’t think this through,” he muttered, and when Stiles laughed, Derek smothered a smile against the back of his neck. He didn’t _dance_ , god no, but all he could think about was getting that guy’s hands _off_ Stiles. If this was the temporary price he had to pay, letting Stiles’ hips move against his for a few minutes, he could live with it. “And he wasn’t perfectly nice,” he added as an afterthought.

“Whatever you say, Sourwolf.”

The smell—sweat and lust and alcohol and various perfumes and colognes—was nearly overwhelming, but Derek just tucked his nose behind Stiles’ ear and tried to focus on his heartbeat instead. He slid one hand from Stiles’ hip down and over a bit, ghosting over the front of his jeans. He was half-hard, but before Derek could explore that further, Stiles’ hand darted down to squeeze Derek’s wrist at the same time as he stepped forward to put space in between them. Derek opened his mouth, an apology ready on his lips, but Stiles just tightened his grip and towed him toward the back corner, without even looking back.

He was heading for the _bathroom_ , in fact, fuck. It was empty for the moment, thankfully, and so Derek went with it, pushing Stiles into a stall and right up against the side. “ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles hissed, a shiver going through him as Derek stepped up behind him.

He’d certainly never had any desire to hook up in a bathroom stall, but he would do just about anything to have Stiles under his hands again, thrumming with his energy, his heartbeat unique as a fingerprint. “What?” he asked, not even sure what he was asking, and Stiles laughed.

“ _What_ what?”

“What do you want?” Derek asked lowly, and Stiles swallowed audibly. Without saying anything, he reached back, grabbed Derek’s hand, and brought it around to the front of his pants. He was half-hard, and Derek was pretty sure he could take it from here.

The noise from the loud bar was muffled through the door, and the silence in the bathroom seemed almost harsh in contrast, making Derek feel like he had to hold his breath. He slowly thumbed opened the button to Stiles’ jeans and unzipped them. After tugging them down just a touch, when he slipped his hand into Stiles’ boxers, Stiles’ moan echoed his own. He was hard, practically jumping in Derek’s grip, and Derek gave two quick, dry strokes before letting go and lifting his hand to Stiles’ mouth.

He needed no instruction, holding Derek’s wrist and thoroughly laving his hand and fingers with his tongue. Derek shivered, pressing his own dick against Stiles’ ass in the process, and reluctantly brought his hand back down. He knew they were tempting fate with the public locale, so he set a harsh pace right off the bat and gripped Stiles’ hip with his free hand. Stiles’ breath hitched, and he braced one arm on the wall in front of him and clutched Derek’s still forearm with the other.

“Fuck, Derek, _fuck_ ,” Stiles hissed, squirming in his tight grip. It was _addictive_ , that’s what it was, feeling each and every one of Stiles’ harsh breaths as his chest and torso expanded against Derek’s.

The door clanged and squeaked as two guys came in, and Derek felt more than heard Stiles’ sharp intake of breath. “Shhh,” he murmured, right against the shell of Stiles’ ear, and he smirked at the full-body shiver that he got in response.

He slowed his strokes, torturously so, and brought his other hand up to Stiles’ mouth, just to give him something to do besides make noise. Stiles grabbed for it, licking his thumb and biting far more gently than necessary, and Derek instantly regretted his plan—now _he_ was the one who was going to be loud.

But finally the bathroom was empty again, and Stiles’ resulting groan sounded obscenely loud. Derek laughed—he couldn’t help it, this was ridiculous, they were having sex in _public_ —and sped his hand up again. He couldn’t see Stiles’ face, of course, but based on the way he was writhing and clutching at Derek’s hip, he was close.

“Are you close?” he whispered, biting at Stiles’ earlobe, and he smiled against Stiles’ neck when he came with a whine, as if on command, right into Derek’s hand.

Stiles reached behind himself and clumsily undid Derek’s pants, making him whistle out a low breath at the release of pressure, then shoved his own boxers down, below the curve of his ass. Derek finally got it and stepped forward with a grunt, nestling his dick against the crack of Stiles’ ass. He locked his left hand around Stiles’ bare hip and used his right—the one covered in Stiles’ come, _Jesus_ —to slick his dick as best he could.

He got into an awkward rhythm of thrusting into his own grip and also against Stiles’ ass, the head of his dick bumping against Stiles’ low back on every pass. Stiles tangled their fingers together on his hip and arched his back, pressing even tighter against Derek’s dick.

It only took him a few more thrusts before he came, biting down on his lower lip to avoid making noise, and he probably took more pleasure than he should have watching himself spill over Stiles’ low back and the top of his ass. Stiles groaned, though, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, so Derek didn’t feel too bad about it.

The bathroom was thankfully empty now, and everything seemed to echo loudly as Derek clumsily cleaned up with toilet paper and took care of Stiles’ pants and then his own.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Stiles said finally, breaking into a burst of hysterical laughter. “I’ve never done that before.”

“Me neither,” Derek admitted, and Stiles grinned at him.

* * *

Derek was sprawled on the couch on his stomach, trying and failing to concentrate on his book.

Today was the day—the anniversary—and everyone knew better than to contact him, knowing that he liked to brood in private. Everyone but Stiles, of course, Derek thought fondly as he picked up the rattling of the Jeep a mile away. Derek idly tracked his progress as he pulled into the parking lot, got out of the car, and made his way up the steps. His heartbeat was racing, even faster than usual, and Derek relaxed slightly. He had no idea why, but it was more than a little comforting that Stiles was probably nervous.

Stiles loitered outside the door for an extra minute, but he eventually let himself in with the key that he liked to pretend Derek didn’t know he had. “Hey.”

Derek twisted his head to look at him over his shoulder. Stiles _was_ a little nervous, shifting his weight more than normal. “Hi.”

“I brought your favorite,” Stiles said, lifting the plastic bag that he was holding. “Greasy Chinese food.”

“That’s not my favorite,” Derek said as he turned back to his book, and Stiles snorted.

“Yeah, right, buddy. You like to pretend that you’re a devoted practitioner of that whole my-body-is-a-temple thing, but I know Chinese takeout is your favorite, don’t lie.”

“I admit nothing,” he said, flipping a page even though he hadn’t read a word. “Did you get eggrolls?”

“Obviously,” Stiles said, and Derek could practically _hear_ his eye roll.

“So did you come here just to be my delivery boy?” Derek asked. He and Stiles had never discussed this… _thing_ between him, and he didn’t know how to start talking about it now.

“No,” Stiles said, dropping the food on the coffee table and stretching himself out over Derek’s back. “I might have had something else in mind.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhmm. Let me help you forget,” he whispered. His lips brushed against the nape of Derek’s neck as he spoke, making him shiver.

It was so close to what he wanted— _everything_ , and he was craving comfort today above any other—that he could only nod and arch up under Stiles’ weight, tossing his book aside. Stiles wasn’t as big as him, but he was solid and broad and strong, and having his weight on top of him was a little more comforting that Derek wanted to admit.

Stiles was quiet for a minute, just nosing through Derek’s hair. Suddenly Stiles’ teeth latched onto the nape of Derek’s neck, holding him there, and Derek froze instinctively.

He let go with a sharp inhale and put a little space in between them. “Fuck, dude, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Derek shook his head. “It’s—,” he started, clearing his throat when his voice came out as a croak. “It’s fine.”

Stiles hummed, and Derek closed his eyes with a little moan when the teeth came back, nibbling gently all along his hairline. He was hard now, almost all the way, and pressed down against the couch in a fruitless search for friction.

“Goddamn,” Stiles breathed, pressing a kiss to the back of Derek’s neck, where there was undoubtedly a rapidly-disappearing mark. He lifted himself up, moving off the couch and twisting so that he was sitting on the floor in front of it. He slapped Derek’s ass, gently but enough that Derek had to stifle a moan. “Up you go, come on.”

Derek struggled to a lazy sitting position, slumping even more when Stiles hooked his hands behind his knees and tugged him closer to the edge. “Oh, god,” he said, clenching his hands in the couch once he realized exactly what was happening.

“Mhmm,” Stiles murmured, lifting higher on his knees and yanking down Derek’s basketball shorts. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and he may or may not have preened a little at Stiles’ appreciative croon.

Derek wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d thought about this before, but even when he let himself go there it wasn’t as good as this. Stiles’ mouth was hot and wet, and while Derek usually appreciated a little teasing, Stiles just _went_ for it, and it was fucking perfect.

He even pried Derek’s fingers off the couch cushion and placed them on his head. “No claws,” Stiles pulled off to say, and Derek huffed a laugh.

“Promise.”

He barely had enough presence of mind to even tangle his fingers in Stiles’ hair, which was more than enough—he was really happy the buzzcut was gone. Stiles paused for a second, then, rustling with something down below, and Derek groaned when he realized that Stiles was undoing his pants and starting to jack off.

“Shit,” he whispered, his eyes locked to the rhythmic jerk of Stiles’ shoulder. God, this was going to be over way too fast, but Derek didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He tightened his fingers in Stiles’ hair in warning and tapped at his shoulder, but Stiles just doubled his efforts. Derek’s orgasm felt drawn out of him more than anything, and he curled over Stiles with a harsh yell as he came straight down his throat.

Stiles pulled off quickly and gasped, his mouth red and swollen and so debauched-looking that Derek whined. And even though he couldn’t really see anything, the light spatter sound against the wood floors, plus Stiles’ strangled groan, was more than enough to paint a picture in Derek’s head and make him shiver.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Stiles said, gasping as he leaned his head against Derek’s thigh. “Sorry about your floor.”

Derek laughed, a little hysterical, and shook his head. “I don’t mind,” he said, slumping over slowly so that he was lying down again.

Stiles stood up with a smile, yanking his jeans up along the way, and pulled a throw blanket off the armchair. He tucked it around Derek, and as Derek pulled it closer, relishing the gesture, he didn’t dare mention that he was actually burning up.

“Sleep, okay?” Stiles whispered, and the ghost of a light kiss on his forehead was the last thing Derek remembered.

* * *

A few weeks later, Derek drove down to Scott and Stiles’ dorm. It was Scott’s birthday, and he’d been informed under no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to miss the party that had been planned.

Erica, Isaac, and Boyd clambered out of the car to hug the birthday boy, who came outside to greet them. Derek followed, a little slower, but Scott grabbed his arm before he could follow everyone inside. His gaze was firm, more serious than Derek was accustomed to seeing it, and Derek forced himself to stay still. Was this when Scott was finally going to step up to his best friend duty and tell Derek to stay away from Stiles? He should—Derek was surprised it hadn’t already happened, to be honest.

“Stiles—” Scott started, and then he shook his head and started again. “There was a guy, last week, at this party. He was…handsy, and I think there were some things that happened that Stiles didn’t exactly want.”

Derek blinked. “What?” he gritted out.

“I punched him,” Scott said, looking a bit proud for a split second, and Derek huffed a little laugh, if only to distract himself from the jealousy and rage swirling through him. “Stiles won’t really tell us what happened, but I, uh, thought you should know.”

“Why are you telling me this?” he said finally, trying to push all thoughts of his own revenge out of his head.

Scott’s gaze was a little too sympathetic for Derek’s taste, and he clenched his jaw in response. “We all know, man. Stiles doesn’t talk about it, but—come on, you know we can smell it.”

He waited for the inevitable _stay away from him_ , but surprisingly, it didn’t come—Scott just patted his shoulder and disappeared inside. Derek heaved a sigh and trailed after him, following the familiar scents of his friends to find the party.

Stiles’ scent was the strongest, of course, and he zeroed in on him immediately, snaking through the throngs of people.

Stiles’ head snapped up as he approached. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said with a little nod, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “How are you?”

Stiles gave a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders, and his smile was a ghost of what it usually was. “Fine, I guess.”

“Scott, uh, told me what happened. With that guy.”

Stiles sighed, then glared in Scott’s direction. “That fucker.”

“Scott or the guy?”

Stiles laughed, looking surprised at the sound that came out of his own mouth, and tilted his head. “The guy. But Scott shouldn’t have told you.”

Derek shrugged. He agreed. “Are you, uh,” he said, then he paused and scratched at his stubble. He had no idea what to say, how to handle this.

“Come on,” Stiles said, interrupting him and grabbing his wrist. He tugged Derek out of the party, down the hall, and into another room. Judging from the posters on the wall and the scattered knickknacks that Derek recognized—let alone the smell—it must have been the room he shared with Scott.

Stiles didn’t bother turning the lights on and set his red cup on the desk before bracing his hands against it. “I mean, it wasn’t—it could have been a lot worse,” he conceded, running a hand through his hair, and Derek gritted his teeth. “Nothing _happened_ , we were in public, it was just—I feel gross now, you know? And like, psyched out.”

Fuck, Derek didn’t know what to _say_. “I’m sorry,” he offered. Shit, that was trite and terrible—he was the worst. “It really sucks. I, uh, know.” Not much better.

But Stiles smiled, and considering that it looked closer to his usual one, Derek at the very least wasn’t making things worse. “Thank you,” he said, stepping closer and lifting his hands slowly, as if he was afraid of scaring Derek. He might be right, Derek thought, watching Stiles cautiously as he slid his hands into Derek’s jacket and slipped it off his shoulders.

Derek hesitated—he was pretty sure Stiles wasn’t just removing his jacket as a courteous gesture. “I—are you sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

He wasn’t lying, and besides, what the fuck was Derek supposed to say to that?

He pushed Stiles down onto the bed and climbed in after him, curling up behind him on his side. Gently, he curled his arm around Stiles’ waist and pushed up under his shirt, slower than anything they’d done so far.

“Scott told me he punched him,” Derek said lowly, his breath causing Stiles’ hair to flutter.

Stiles laughed, though it got tangled up with a moan when Derek scraped his fingers through the line of hair above his waistband. “It was pretty great. His face was priceless.”

“It would have been hard for me to stop at a punch,” Derek said, and it felt like a confession.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, his voice forced casual, “you werewolves and your violent tendencies.”

Derek didn’t respond—even though he was pretty sure his thoughts had nothing to do with being a werewolf—and instead pushed Stiles down onto his back and rearranged himself so that he was kneeling between Stiles’ legs. Stiles’ eyes went wide as Derek tried to find a comfortable position on the narrow bed.

“This better not be a pity blow job,” he said, breathing heavily already, and Derek gave him a flat look.

“I wouldn’t know,” he said mildly, biting his lip to hide his smile when Stiles laughed.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be as beautiful as you.”

Hoping that his flush wasn’t visible in the dim light, Derek swallowed all the things he wanted to say in response and instead focused on Stiles’ zipper. He was mostly hard already, surprise surprise, and Derek took a deep breath as he wrestled Stiles’ pants below the curve of his ass.

He hadn’t done this very often, and not in a long time, but the basics were familiar enough. Stiles was delightfully responsive, though, all mindless chatter and loud, bitten-off groans. His hands were constantly on the move, petting Derek’s hair and stroking over his jaw and his shoulders, and Derek let it all wash over him as he worked.

He liked the feel of it, the stretch and slight ache in his jaw, how Stiles smelled and tasted even stronger. He had to be careful, in fact, not to let his senses completely overwhelm him, and it had never been harder than when Stiles clenched his fingers in his hair and _whined_ as he came with a great shuddering rush.

Derek pulled off with a gasp and turned his head into his own shoulder, taking a deep breath and trying to recalibrate the sense receptors in his brain that were threatening to overload from the onslaught. Stiles wasn’t feeling so patient, though, and when he pulled at Derek’s shoulders, he went easily. Stiles started fumbling for his pants, but Derek knocked him away gently and settled on his knees and elbows over Stiles. He very carefully unzipped his pants—bad day not to wear underwear—and pushed them down enough to pull his dick out.

Stiles groaned, deep and guttural, and reached his hand down also. They got into a rhythm after a minute, and Derek ducked down to bite and suck at Stiles’ neck. He knew he was making a mark, but at least he was careful with his placement—a normal t-shirt would _almost_ cover it, probably, even if Stiles had to keep adjusting it.

It was a little awkward—balancing on one elbow and jacking off while simultaneously working on a monster hickey required supernatural balance—but Derek made it work. All of Stiles’ squirming wasn’t helping the balance situation, though it sure wasn’t hurting his dick.

“I’m gonna have to wear a turtleneck for like a month, huh?” Stiles asked, but he didn’t sound too broken up about it.

“I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you,” he said, seemingly as a non sequitur, and he immediately grimaced. Way to sound creepy, good job, buddy. Stiles didn’t seem to notice or care, though, he just groaned a little and arched his neck closer to Derek.

He couldn’t really resist an invitation like that, not when Stiles’ heartbeat spiked as he bared his neck. He was gentler this time, though, soft kisses around the edge of the mark he made, and Stiles groaned again. He also sped up the motion of his hand, startling Derek and making him realize suddenly that he was way closer to the edge than he thought.

“Come on, Derek,” Stiles murmured, his voice even lower than usual as he squeezed his free hand in between them to push his own shirt up. “Come on me, you know you want to.”

Talk about being unable to resist an invitation, Derek barely lasted six more seconds before he growled right in Stiles’ ear and spilled heavily all over his stomach. The sight was more than he could handle right now, and he clenched his eyes shut. Dear God, this was just—it was all just too much.

Derek braced his forehead on Stiles’ shoulder, chest still heaving, and groaned.

It wasn’t a happy groan, though, which Stiles clearly picked up on as he tensed. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Derek cleared his throat and swung off the bed, zipping and buttoning his pants. He gave his belt buckle more attention than was necessary and avoided looking at Stiles. “I should, uh, go. Let’s get you back to the party.”

Stiles sighed and half-heartedly wiped his stomach off with his bedsheet. “Yeah.”

* * *

Derek didn’t see Stiles again until New Year’s Eve. Lydia threw a party at her house, and everyone in attendance was somewhere between heavily tipsy and flat-out drunk. _Everyone_ —he had no idea where she’d gotten her hands on wolfsbane-laced alcohol, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised.

It was only a few minutes before midnight when Stiles popped up, draping himself along Derek’s side and tilting even closer to whisper in his ear. “Come outside with me,” he said, his voice so soft that the other wolves wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music and the TV.

Derek accepted his weight, happily, and twisted to look at Stiles more fully, taking in his big bright eyes and inexplicably, the rakish tilt of the plastic crown on his head. He gazed a beat too long and realized that he hadn’t responded yet, but something about his expression must have given him away because Stiles just grinned and tugged at his wrist.

He followed Stiles outside—who was he kidding, Derek would have followed him anywhere—and let Stiles push him against the side of the house. “Fuck,” he said, shoving his face into Derek’s neck and licking sloppily. He bit down suddenly, and Derek yelped in surprise, tilting his head back at the same time.

“Shhh,” Stiles stage-whispered, giggling, and Derek couldn’t help but laugh in response. They were both sort of holding each other up, with the help of the wall, and Derek squeezed tighter, under the guise of balance.

He forced a thigh between Stiles’ legs, giving him something to grind down against. He took the invitation eagerly, thrusting against him eagerly, if a little clumsily. “Oh, fuck, Derek, shit,” he said, his voice delightfully slurred. “You, you gotta fuck me, man, I need it, _please_ —”

The thought made Derek keen as his eyes fell shut against the onslaught of images. “’M not fucking you out here,” he muttered, probably needlessly, but Stiles groaned anyway.

He wormed a hand down the back of Stiles’ jeans, under his boxers, and squeezed. He inched his fingers closer, dipping them into Stiles’ crack, and smirked when Stiles gasped and arched into him further. “ _Derek_ ,” he groaned, his voice muffled from where he was mouthing at Derek’s neck mindlessly.

Gripping tighter, Derek unabashedly used his strength to grind them together. Stiles braced his head in Derek’s neck as their rhythm got rougher and more haphazard, and he sounded like his orgasm was being forced out of him as he barely stifled a yell. Derek gasped at the feel of it, Stiles twitching and squirming against every inch of him, and he may or may not have whined helplessly when Stiles pushed to put more space between them.

Stiles grinned, though, his eyes wide and bright, and he quickly undid Derek’s jeans. Derek dropped his gaze, letting his mind drift while he watched the ropey muscles of Stiles’ forearm bunch and release as he jerked him off. “Mmm, fuck, Der,” Stiles murmured, having gone back to biting at his neck. “God, you’re so—”

Derek really wanted to hear the end of that sentence, but Stiles twisted his wrist, sweeping his thumb under the head as he lengthened his strokes, and Derek held his breath. Stiles knew now, knew exactly how to get him off, and it was that thought—lodged somewhere in Stiles’ brain were explicit instructions on the best way to make Derek Hale come—that sent him screaming over the edge, muffling his groan against the fabric covering Stiles’ shoulder.

He could faintly hear everyone celebrating inside and even fainter, fireworks from a little ways away. He was familiar with the adage—whatever you did at midnight would set the tone for what you would do the rest of the year—but he _didn’t_ want to be doing this next year, exchanging rushed hand jobs with Stiles and nothing else.

And as he held Stiles, still twitching in the comedown from his orgasm and mumbling into Derek’s neck, he resolved that this would be it.

* * *

_Hey, I’m in town for the weekend and just got in. You around?_

Derek stared at the text, willing himself to ignore it. It was almost one in the morning, and he was already in bed.

It had been over a month since New Year’s, and he’d been doing a good job of keeping his resolution—but of course, he hadn’t actually _seen_ Stiles. His fingers moved of their own volition, though, and he groaned even as he typed.

**Yeah, come over**

_Be there in 15_

Derek slumped over, shoved his face into his pillow, and spent the next 15 minutes cursing most of his life choices.

He forced himself to roll out of bed once he heard Stiles’ heartbeat, and he was halfway to the door by the time Stiles let himself in. “Hey, there.” Stiles stepped forward with a grin, his hand reaching out immediately, but Derek winced. He stepped back several steps to dislodge Stiles’ hand and moved behind the couch, eager to put something between them.

Stiles was clearly confused, his mouth open and twisted, his hand still hanging in the air, and Derek took a deep breath. He really hoped that Stiles wouldn’t try to _lure_ him into anything because he didn’t know if he would be able to say no.

“I, uh—I don’t want this anymore,” he said, forcing the words out of his throat. He was going for stern, but he thought he probably ended up somewhere around _plaintive_.

Stiles paused, eyes wide, and he suddenly looked exactly as young as he was. “Why not? What _do_ you want?” he asked, his voice a little shaky.

Derek huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I want _everything_ ,” he said, the ferocity of his voice surprising even him. Stiles stepped back reflexively, which made him feel even worse. “I thought I could do…just this. But I can’t, I just can’t. Not anymore.”

Stiles’ gaze shuttered instantly, his eyes flickering though emotions too fast for Derek to keep up with. “And you want all that with someone else,” he said softly, nodding to himself. With his gaze lowered, he turned around and headed for the door.

Derek resisted the urge to punch _anything_ as he lifted his eyes heavenward and wondered when exactly his life morphed into a romcom cliché. “I want everything with _you_ , you idiot,” he said, not bothering to raise his voice—at least he wasn’t yelling this in an airport or somewhere equally ridiculous—and Stiles froze with one hand on the door.

“You what?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

“You heard me. That’s what I want. What do _you_ want?” Derek asked, putting a lot more bravado into his voice than he was actually feeling.

Stiles turned around fully, and Derek crept toward him. “I just want—you, however I can have you,” Stiles said, with a self-deprecating little shrug. “I thought…I thought that this, whatever we’ve been doing, was all that you were offering.”

Derek suddenly realized, with startling clarity, that they’d never even _kissed_. He set to rectify that immediately, pressing Stiles against the door as gently as he could manage and crowding closer. Stiles got it, his face splitting into a wide grin, and Derek couldn’t help but smile helplessly back.

He cradled Stiles’ cheek in one hand, thumbing over his cheekbone, but Stiles was the one who grabbed his hair and tugged him all the way in. The kiss was soft, softer than Derek thought they could be, and he opened his mouth just a little, sucking Stiles’ lower lip in between his own. Stiles fucking _whined_ , some kind of strangled noise high in his throat, and Derek surged forward even more, until they were completely pressed together from shoulders to knees.

The kiss deepened then, with both of Stiles’ arms coming up around Derek’s back as they learned how to fit together this way, experimenting with different angles and pressures. Eventually they pulled back for air, and Derek couldn’t keep his eyes off Stiles’ red lips. “Can you stay?” he made himself ask, barely whispering the words against Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles huffed.

“Try to get me to leave, Sourwolf, I dare you,” he said, and Derek smiled when he tangled their fingers together.

“Okay,” he said simply, towing Stiles back toward the bedroom.

He pushed Stiles’ plaid overshirt off his shoulders and, after Stiles nodded, carefully lifted up his t-shirt. They slowly undressed each other, the first time they’d actually taken the time to take off their clothes, Jesus Christ.

Derek climbed into bed and tugged Stiles with him, laying on his back and rearranging Stiles so that he was draped over his chest. Stiles kissed his chest, right over his heart, and Derek hoped he could hear it speed up.

“I never thought you could want that with me,” Stiles whispered.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he forced himself to say. Fuck, feelings were hard. “I—I’ve wanted that for a long time. I want to be with you.”

Stiles laughed, sounding disbelieving, and levered himself up to plant a firm kiss on Derek’s lips. “Next time, say something.”

“There isn’t gonna _be_ a next time,” Derek said mulishly, and Stiles smiled, completely indulgent. When he leaned down to kiss him again, Derek held him there, turning the kiss long and languid and lazy. Stiles slumped down against him completely, sprawled over him like a blanket, and Derek playfully tugged on his hair.

“You’re a very comfortable pillow,” he murmured, nuzzling into Derek’s chest.

“Shut up,” he said, even as he rubbed his back and hid his smile in his hair. “And go to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> And then they probably woke up in the morning and had lots of sex. ♥


End file.
